


I'd Rather You

by Lotus_Dumplings



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Basically Fran opens his mouth and Lovi is immediately gay, How Do I Tag, Love at First Sight, M/M, Operas, Poetry, Purple Prose, Singing, Words, and Romano being dramatic, like a bitch, quoting John Donne, romance nations being too gay for this earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 20:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotus_Dumplings/pseuds/Lotus_Dumplings
Summary: "I'd rather you, than anyone else." His hands move to brush golden hair away from a fair face. He looks at pink lips and swallows. "Can I?"François nods. "Take my lips, Monsieur. You have already taken my heart."





	I'd Rather You

**Author's Note:**

> I needed FraMano and Lovi being an Opera gay.  
> I watched 2 hours of Opera for this.  
> ALSO THANKS TO [JADE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRiverDay/pseuds/JadeRiverDay) FOR BETAING FOR ME.

_L'Orfeo_. That's the first opera Lovino sees. He's young, only just beginning to grow into himself, but he's immediately smitten. 

Grand music captures his ears and pulls him closer. Costume and stage direction makes it impossible for him to look away. The dancing grips at his heart, steals his soul. The dancers make way for the leads, and he loses his breath. Euridice is beautiful, but Orfeo? Orfeo is gorgeous. 

And then, he begins to sing. 

There are so many emotions running through Lovino in this moment. So many things he loves about it all. The language, the story, the love they have for each other. He melts. 

He cries when it ends. He cries for Euridice. He cries for Orfeo. He cries because he can't reach out, can't take the music, can't take the dancing, can't take Orfeo with him. He cries because he has to leave. 

His father asks what's wrong. He can't voice himself. His words were stolen from him the moment the orchestra started. His tongue is held captive by his own heart's weepings. He asks if they can come back instead. 

He goes to a lot more after that. A lot more shows in a lot more houses in a lot more cities. It's just what he does. His life can't revolve around it, being his father's heir, but it's as close as he can get. It's his indulgence, like homemade _Cassata_ or sand between his toes. It makes him happy. 

When he's older, his brother calls from Vienna. "Come with me to this Opera house," he says. "I know how particular you are, but I'm sure you'll love this show." 

Lovino's skeptical—and really stubborn—but he loves music and he loves dance and he loves outfits and he loves everything about the Opera, so he agrees. And Feliciano is right. Because he knows him too well.

_Orfeo ed Euridice._

The show is amazing. He isn't in love with it immediately, though. Not until the nymphs stop dancing. Not until the fawns make way. Not until he sees him. Not until that actor steals his heart. 

He sings, and Lovino feels it. He feels the grief, the longing, the pain of loss and love. He wants to reach out and touch him. He wants to hold him. To stop him from looking back, to save him from more heartbreak. 

His heart is stolen once again. Lovino doesn't believe in love at first sight—or even first sound—but he is captured. Up in the balcony box, his world spinning, his breath catching, his brother smiling knowingly, he is wrapped around that one actor's little finger. 

_François Bonnefoi._

Lovino writes him a letter. He's not sure why, but he does. Perhaps it's impulse, or perhaps he's just really stupid. Either way, he writes him. He writes in a dramatic amount of detail—with the prose and words he's learned from poetry over the years—about the performance. He spills his heart and soul into ink to tell him just how his spellbinding voice managed to seize his heart.

Lovino needs to tell someone, even if François never bothers to look at it. 

Except he does read it, and the next thing he knows, Lovino is back in Vienna. 

He watches the man perform in _Il barbiere di Siviglia_. Much to his surprise, he plays Rosina, rather than Almaviva. It doesn't matter much to Lovino, though. His performance is still just as gorgeous. 

_Guillaume Tell, Lucia di Lammermoor, Don Carlos, Tosca, Fidelio_. No matter what he performs in, Lovino finds him absolutely stunning. It's impossible to express with the simple words of man, but Lord does he try. 

François offers to show him around the Opera House. Lovino accepts. It's the first time they meet face-to-face, and yet the man is still just as stunning as he is on stage. He steals Lovino's words with a glance and plays with his heart in his hands. He feels stupid, but he can't help but want more.

"You're beautiful," Lovino says, without thinking. 

"Oh?" François raised an eyebrow in amusement.

He really is stupid, he decides. He thinks a bit and swallows down the lump in his throat. " _If ever any beauty I did see, which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of you_." 

Truly, he's the most ethereal thing Lovino has ever laid his eyes upon. With the grace of a falling feather, a laugh as warm as the crackling in the fireplace, and an enchantment to rival Eros, Psyche, and perhaps even Aphrodite herself. He sounds more beautiful than Euterpe and moves with more skill than Terpsichore. 

Or perhaps Lovino is just really infatuated. He can never be sure. 

Still, he goes out of his way to write. He reads each reply meticulously, full heartedly. Letter after letter, exchange after exchange, and Lovino still feels his heart longing for him. He's not just in love with François' beauty, he finds. He's in love with _him_. 

" _Dear love, for nothing less than thee_  
_Would I have broke this happy dream;_  
_It was a theme_  
_For reason, much too strong for phantasy,_  
_Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet_  
_My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it_." 

François laughs. "I am not as beautiful as you make me out to be, Monsieur Vargas." 

"No, perhaps not, but what I feel is far beyond appreciation of beauty, Signor Bonnefoi." 

He smiles, but stays silent. Lovino curses himself, sure he did something wrong, but François moves to be closer to him, eyes sparkling. "Pray do tell, what is it that you feel?" he whispers.

Lovino looks back at those shining blue eyes. A sea in which he would gladly dive, or a sky in which he could fly, and free he would be in the vastness of love. Or perhaps he was just stupid. 

Still, he uttered back, " _Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,_  
_Before I knew thy face or name;_  
_So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame_  
_Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;_  
_Still when, to where thou wert, I came,_  
_Some lovely glorious nothing I did see_."

____

The next performance Lovino goes to, François looks at him. At least he thinks he does. He thinks he sees his lips upturn and his eyes sparkle, too, but before he can be sure, he's in character again. 

"It is quite amusing how speechless you always seem to be. In written form, you are quite expressive, no?" 

Lovino feels his face heat a bit, and he looks away sheepishly. "I speak quite often—and quite expressively, I might add—but you hold my tongue, François." 

"Oh? Should I speak less?" 

"No, it isn't a matter of not having space to speak. I simply lose my words in your presence. Besides, the sound of my voice may never compare to your own." 

François looks down at his feet, a silly sort of smile gracing his lips. "You speak so highly of me, I fear you may not know how marvelous you are, yourself." 

"I am nothing special." 

"I have to disagree, Lovino. You are a sight for sore eyes and a voice for strained ears. You're magnificent with words and you have an eye for art. The things you say about me are much too sweet, I am undeserving." 

"You're more deserving than anyone I have ever set my eyes upon." 

"I am not that beautiful!" 

"It is not a matter of beauty." 

François quiets him with a tight embrace. Neither says nothing more. 

When Lovino goes to see François' performance in of _Die Zauberflöte_ , he finally realizes how deep he was fallen. He feels something in the pit of his stomach when Pamina and Tamino embrace. He feels the love in the words they speak and the song they sing. He can't understand why, but he wants that. He wants François to hold him like Tamino holds Pamina. 

" _We can die by it, if not live by love,_  
And if unfit for tombs and hearse  
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;  
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,  
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;  
As well a well-wrought urn becomes  
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,  
And by these hymns, all shall approve  
Us canonized for Love."

François looks on at him with sad eyes. "I would rather not be your downfall." 

"I'd rather you, than anyone else." His hands move to brush golden hair away from a fair face. He looks at pink lips and swallows. "Can I?" 

François nods. "Take my lips, Monsieur. You have already taken my heart." 

**Author's Note:**

> L'Orfeo- a famous opera about the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice.
> 
> Cassata- Sicilian cake.
> 
> Orfeo ed Euridice- a famous opera also about the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. It's different I swear. I used it for memories sake.
> 
> Il barbiere di Siviglia- a comedy opera. FRANCE PLAYS THE LOVE INTEREST AND SHE'S A CONTRALTO MY HEART.
> 
> Guillaume Tell, Lucia di Lammermoor, Don Carlos, Tosca, Fidelio- Just some Opera.
> 
> If ever any beauty I did see, which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of you.- a few lines from The Good-Morrow by John Donne.
> 
> Eros- Aphrodite's son, God of love.
> 
> Psyche- Ero's wife
> 
> Aphrodite- Goddess of Love
> 
> Euterpe- Muse of music
> 
> Terpsichore- Muse of dance
> 
> Dear love, for nothing less than thee  
> Would I have broke this happy dream;  
> It was a theme  
> For reason, much too strong for phantasy,  
> Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet  
> My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it- Lines from the Dream by John Donne.
> 
> Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,  
> Before I knew thy face or name;  
> So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame  
> Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;  
> Still when, to where thou wert, I came,  
> Some lovely glorious nothing I did see- Lines from Angels and Air by John Donne
> 
> Die Zauberflöte- The Magical Flute, a kinda sorta Opera by Mozart.
> 
> We can die by it, if not live by love,  
> And if unfit for tombs and hearse  
> Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;  
> And if no piece of chronicle we prove,  
> We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;  
> As well a well-wrought urn becomes  
> The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,  
> And by these hymns, all shall approve  
> Us canonized for Love- Lines of The Canonization by John Donne
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
